


Things That Break

by Logomancy



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Chara is the Narrator, Character Analysis, Decorative Rambling, Gen, lots of metaphors, this makes sense if you've played the whole pacificist route, well you are the narrator who is chara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6938071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Logomancy/pseuds/Logomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A child falls into the Underground whose soul is as red as cherries, as blood, and as love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things That Break

You come out of a murky haze, like waking up from an immersive dream that slips from your fingers like mercury.

There’s a kid who looks too small in their sweater, looking at a smiling flower.

You wonder why you’re even here, and then bullets fly.

\--

You talk out loud to the kid as if they can hear you. Maybe they can. They smile at monsters and you stare at the bandage that stretches on their face.

\--

Your mother stands amongst flames and the child stands before her. You get the feeling that this some sort of test, but it’s not for you.

You had cut yourself from the photograph a long time ago.

(A swing of a knife, a tad harder than expected, and then her soul breaks in two.

The dust doesn’t even have time to settle on the ground before the world slips and turns.)

You are one of three people who know what had happened the first time.

One is the child, small and troubled. Another, laughing at them, projecting hollow malice, has no soul.

And you have neither soul nor body, and you wonder if you count as a person.

\--

You find out that the child’s name is Frisk.

No one asks, and they tell no one. They act like a nobody, a wisp of a personality.

They have a quiet and determined strength, and you think that means more than any name or title.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a flimsy piece of red construction paper.

It tears apart and the pieces flutter to the ground and shiver at the sound of your memories.

Frisk puts themself back together like a kindergarten arts and crafts corner, edges overlapping and rough, patched with tape and glue.

The world blinks awake and snow begins to fall again.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a cookie, a product of painstaking baking practice pleasantly filled with raspberry.

The captain of the royal guard hurls a spear, too bright to be real metal, and it knocks the soul off the table and onto the floor, and it cracks into pieces, almost disappointingly.

Someone who might have loved you once tells the crumbs to not give up.

Frisk bakes themself another soul, and adds icing and sprinkles this time, because why not.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a stained glass window, glimmering and breathtaking.

The stage is set, the audience watches with bated breath, and the soul responds in turn to the stage lights, shining in crimson, scarlet, carnelian.

They shatter into vermillion shards and fall on a surface that is dark and empty and isn’t there.

You’re beginning to hate this place. It reminds you too much of yourself.

Frisk cuts themself on a shard when they rearrange the parts of themself into a mural, and you lament the loss of the bandage they had worn, so long ago. Long ago was hours past, really, but death stretches and shrinks time meaninglessly in this black nothingness.

\--

Frisk looks in the mirror and you tell them that despite everything, it is still them.

They smile a small smile, a smile that is sad and knowing, too knowing.

You wonder if they can feel what you can feel, in this house. The monsters sing of a story, too glorified and misread, and you remember what your soul was like, and how it really went.

Your soul was a candle, and you gave it away to someone else because it wasn’t of any use to you. You would have once thought that your candle had too weak of a flame, and now you think it was too hot, too bright, and dripped scalding red wax on the unassuming holder.

You snuffed out your flame with a blow of resentment and guilt, and never thought it necessary to light it again.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a locket.

It lies underneath the one you used to wear, and while one heart aches the other one pulses forth, wishing and dreaming and _giving_.

It opens under the gaze of two dark sockets, framed by a grin deceivingly wide.

Out pours love, love born of hurt, born of experience, and born by a child’s need to believe that everything is going to be _okay_.

It pours into you, a torrent, and you do believe, for a moment, awe-struck and speechless.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a jar of red paint.

Your father stands amongst flames and a collection of paints that seem eerily dull in the flickering light.

He swings his trident and Frisk’s soul spills over and splatters, red drops on a black canvas. A picture paints a thousand words, but this one just painted what they thought you were thinking, _I told you so_.

You don’t say anything, rather you reach out with a hand, slowly making Frisk’s soul into a painting. _Don’t give up._

They take it from you, and the world spins like a top.

\--

A swing of a knife, a tad harder than expected.

Your father kneels in front of you and dreams of having a family.

Then his soul breaks in two, unexpectedly, and the dust doesn’t even have time to settle on the ground before the world bends on itself so suddenly that it cracks.

There are three people who know, and one is a child whose painting had been violently ripped to pieces, and you are another, with no soul or body but the stains of someone’s trust still on your fingers.

The other is a grotesque horror with six souls, with a malice tempered by raw emotions that do not belong to him.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a music box, playing a gentle tune of forgiveness.

It clatters to the ground with a discordant jumble of notes, accompanied by shrill laughter in a spectacle of a cacophony.

\--          

Frisk’s soul is a flower, straining to see the sun and in turn, brighten someone else’s day.

Petals are plucked, and the stem is crushed and burnt.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a red lace, winding around heartstrings.

It tears, but is stopped by a gentle hand.

A kiss on the stinging cut, and a bandage.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a pair of holding hands, grips tight and unrelenting.

The hold slips, but is pulled together once more.

A flash of a cheeky grin, and a thumbs-up.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a red flute, gleaming and ready for a new song.

It is tossed to the side, but is caught by an outstretched hand.

A twirl and a graceful leap, a dance to a hummed tune.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a notebook, pages filled with thoughtful scribbles and carefree doodles.

Pages are torn and thrown away, but are plucked from the air and returned.

A glint off of lenses, and some kind words written in the margins.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a hot drink in a cozy mug, warming the hands and heart.

The mug is tipped over carelessly, but is rescued and set gently back in its place.

The swish of an apron, and a hearty meal made of love, of course.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a pop-cap gun, a toy designed for simple glee.

The cap tears, and falls into a cupped palm.

A twist of a brim, and an offer of a four leaf clover, in exchange.

\--

Frisk’s soul is

Frisk’s soul _is_

Frisk’s soul is a brilliant diamond, shimmering with the colors of many, and they are unstoppable, they are unbreakable.

They shout, and you shout with them, loud and tired but _determined_ , and angry, because he could do so much _better_.

\--

They break and they shatter, and they tear and they scatter, and crack and splinter and fall apart, but you both grab wildly and with purpose, and you pull them back together.

\--

An ending comes, unfulfilling and bittersweet.

You stand to the side, and know, that in the end, it wasn’t ever about your choice; it isn’t your story.

The world turns over lazily, but for them it couldn’t have been more urgent.

\--

You think this is a prank. The date was fun and promising, but the laboratory is dark and ominous and you can’t stop whirling around on a maddening instinct.

The creatures here repeat repeat repeat words and then jumblethelettersalltogether and they are overwhelmingly sad and lonely within each other.

Frisk’s steps are shaky, and their fear is unfamiliar, even after all this time.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a bracelet of red beads.

The string breaks and the beads scatter over the floor, and after you help them retie the string you see Frisk cry for the first time.

\--

They listen to tapes that belonged to a family that is broken beyond repair.

You look away, and pretend to not understand. You were a fool to think you could save anyone.

Frisk twists their small mouth into a frown, and you wonder if Frisk even knew you were there, this whole time.

But they face you, and suddenly they don’t seem like a child, or an adult; they were something far more powerful, something that seems almost frightening from a soft face and an oversized sweater.

They tell you that the two of you would do it. You would save everyone, no matter what. You smile despite yourself, your brother’s voice echoing in your ears.

\--

The phone rings.

It’s a voice Frisk has never heard before, not in person.

The echo in your ears becomes reality, and the floor drops beneath you and you think, dizzily, that maybe this _was_ just an elaborate prank.

\--

Your best friend in the whole world stands in front of you, sheepish, and you feel the inexplicable urge to cry, because he can’t see you but he talks to Frisk likes he _knows_.

But then he rises up, large and powerful, all lights and grandeur, and you know, just like he does, that it’s about to be over.

Not in the way he thinks, though. This time, you will do it right.

\--

Frisk’s soul is a candle, a flame.

It ignites the others, it ignites you, and the both of you scream once more, scream until your throats burn and your voices turn hoarse.

You scream his name, Asriel, _Asriel_ , because there are three people who know what it’s like to have the world twist and slide between their fingers, and one is a child in a sweater twice their size but a heart that’s even bigger, another is in front of you, a child who was sensitive, sometimes too much, but who never stopped _caring_ , and then there’s you. You who never thought you deserved anything, never did anything worth deserving love, but no, _no_ , you had gone through so much and you know that you can do _better_ , and you will.

Asriel fights back, unwilling to face truths, but the two of you fight harder.

He shrinks into himself, and the sheepish grin is back, and you think of a million things to tell him but don’t say even one.

He bursts from the core like a star, souls surrounding him like planets, and you and Frisk watch, exhausted but victorious.

Frisk embraces him, for themself, for him, and for you, and there is still a bittersweet taste in your mouth.

Frisk’s family stands before a sunset, speaking in amazed tones, and you stand to the side, and wonder what you’re doing here.

Your mother, Frisk’s mother, takes their hand, and they smile wide and bright at her, and they follow the others at their own pace.

\--

Frisk's soul is a blown kiss, rain on a window, the feeling of crawling into bed after a long day.

They stand in the empty blackness, waiting, considering.

The world holds its breath, unsure; will it be rewound once more?

Frisk sighs, and turns to you, a small smile playing on their lips, and Frisk’s soul is a whispered promise, a _don’t worry, it’ll be okay._

And you know, truly, that they are telling the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Regretfully, “Frisk’s soul is a container of spaghetti sauce” did not make the cut. My deepest apologies.


End file.
